In Switzerland, Speaking German

Different Names for the Same Thing : Song of the day

My nose is tomato red and my cheeks begin to mimic it as we continue to drink Spezial Swiss beer, after a long, perfect day of skiing Laax. Despite my efforts of stretching, my entire body feels as though it is on fire. My muscles feel used-up and raw, my triceps, my wrists, an area below my chest and above my knees that I didn't realize even had muscles... The adrenaline hasn't stopped pumping from the day, and my body feels the bursting, twisting, crazed feeling of being alive, young, present. The day consisted of nothing but me, the air, the mountain and the snow.

I usually am following someone while skiing, following or waiting. This time, I feel completely free following nothing but my own instincts, making my own trail.

Dinner at Boardercamp, [a tiny village of chalets and small wooden houses tucked into the Alps in the sleepy, 420 population town of Rueun,] is boisterous and warm. A group of Germans (Eastern and Western, and I begin to see the difference) shouts and laughs red-facedly about the blinding white snow of the morning and the crisp blue skies of the afternoon. We meet Nicole and Stephan, and a few others patient enough to use their English for the duration, and proceed deep into the night full of ten thousand stars, toasting and prosting to skis, snow, and German swear words. Fast friendships tend to happen on the road, but this couple in particular became two of my favorite people met upon my breadcrumb trail. When you meet people like this, where upon first glance you have nothing in common but age and vibe, you dive right in without even holding your breath. We began to add "ski" to the end of each word, at one point were dancing around our cards scattered on the tabletop, broke our bottles on the floor after opening them with butter knives and the strength of our knuckles, and laughed until the strained muscles of our stomachs almost burst herniatically. My German accent worsened as the night scampered on, and by the end, emails exchanged and tight hugs separated, I promised a Yankee game to my new West German friends, in June when they are visiting New York for the first time.

"I want one of those foam fingers!" Nicole grinned. "And a big bottle of American beer!"

And as I sit now in the airport, I look forward to my Hansel and Gretel, visiting the city, and begin to plan the next place where I will leave my breadcrumbs.